


The Power of a Touch

by Leviafan



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Development, Developing Relationship, M/M, Madeleine Era, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 18:45:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leviafan/pseuds/Leviafan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Madeleine intends it as a simple gesture, an attempt at conciliation; but it has very unexpected consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Power of a Touch

When does a touch, a mere brush of the hand, amount to a blow?

This was the perplexing problem confronting—and being confronted by—a man who was watching the second candle of the night gutter and die. At the sight, this man, who was an inspector and his name was Javert, grimaced and leaned back. The chair beneath him chirped its protest, but he ignored it. Time to settle this. The second candle was also his last. He would soon be in darkness, true darkness, not just the black of puzzlement that currently shrouded his thoughts.

It was a pity his pay was not enough to warrant three candles, but most days he only needed one. He let the sun dictate his hours. He read until it was dark, and then he slept. Tonight was different. Tonight, before he could rest, he must get to the root of this. What, then, was this? It was like this. The morning, before he had received a reply to a certain denunciation he had sent to the prefecture at Paris. This reply had shaken him, but he was not devastated by it until he went to Arras and saw for himself.

The old convict, Jean Valjean, was indeed there, and like the sly dog Javert knew he was, he pretended, very convincingly too, that he was not Jean Valjean but Champmathieu. How could that be, when four convicts, who had been shackled to the same chain with him for years, had recognized him, and Javert too? No, this rogue was Jean Valjean, they had him, within the month he would go to court and be sent back to the galleys for life. He had broken parole, he had robbed again, he had stolen from a bishop.

This surety created another for Javert. The inspector had already denounced another man as Jean Valjean. He had his reasons for suspicion and still considered them valid, but to act on them against a mayor—that was unconscionable. He could see that now. And so as soon as he returned from Arras, at the earliest hour the mayor would admit him, Javert went to request his dismissal. But even after he had explained it all, after the full infamy of what he had done was revealed, M. Madeleine sat calmly at his desk and offered a forgiveness the inspector had not earned.

He continued to argue against it, all but demanding his dismissal—he could not demand from a mayor, even one he distrusted as much as he did Madeleine. In response the man stood up, came around the desk, and laid his hand briefly across Javert's. It was then that Javert, who had thought his troubles complete and absolute, discovered that yet again he was wrong. The touch was fleeting, gentle, meant to be kind; it was hardly Madeleine's fault that Javert at that moment wanted no kindness, but rectitude.

Even kindness though never produced the kind of violent irruption that the hand of the mayor did. He didn't flinch. His expression gave nothing away. But inside, it was as if a blow had been struck. Javert left the office of M. Madeleine deeply unsettled. Not only had he been refused what was only right, now he was troubled by this question. What did it mean?

By necessity it waited until evening. It had nothing to do with seeing that the gutters were kept clean or that the bakers weren't leavening their loaves with sawdust. But once the day was finished, Javert settled to the task over a meal of bread and cheese. He had gotten nowhere by the time darkness fell, so he lit a candle and carried on. It had to have some cause, he knew that. But what? It wasn't only the unwanted kindness, it couldn't be. Precious few people had tried to be kind to Javert in the course of his life, but enough to know it wasn't that. What then?

He kept coming back to one answer, an answer that was impossible, and so he discarded it every time. But what if somehow it was true? The feeling—of repulsion, of profound horror as of the unwanted recognition of a kindred spirit—was one which he had experienced so strongly only once in his life. Shades of it were there in every encounter with a malefactor in the streets, but the full force of it had only struck him once before, under the steady and baleful stare of that same Jean Valjean. But this convict was in prison, he had seen it for himself. So how could he be there and also here? He was only a convict, terrible ignominy though that was, not a witch.

The only thing to do with an uncertainty was to turn it into a certainty through proof. After his first mistake, Javert wasn't willing to risk making not just another, but the very same one. If as he suspected he had been right after all, he had to be really sure, not just for himself, but with proof. What more proof could he gather? He had already the following.

Corresponding dates—Jean Valjean had been released from Toulon late in the summer of 1815, his thefts had been noted as occurring in early October; Father Madeleine had arrived at M-sur-M in December of that year. No one had asked him for his passport, because he had saved the captain of the gendarmerie's children. It was common knowledge that the man who was now mayor had made inquiries at Faverolles, where Jean Valjean had been a pruner. Jean Valjean had been a poacher; Madeleine was, by all accounts, an excellent shot. The mayor favored one of his legs, as if the other were troubled by some old wound—perhaps from being shackled by it for nineteen years. Then too there was his prodigious strength, the like of which Javert had not seen before or since Toulon—until now.

All this had decided Javert, it was why he had denounced the mayor, and though he was unsure now, these facts still remained. They would not, however, hold up a case in court, not when there were four men to attest to another Jean Valjean. If he were to pursue this, unless somehow he got the man to confess, it would be for his own tranquility only. Javert cherished his peace of mind because it was so seldom disturbed. That settled it. He would devise a way of coming into contact with the mayor again, to reassure himself he had not been imagining it. This confirmed, he could proceed. To what? To know for certain, the instinct of a predator would have to be set aside. Javert was not a man practiced in friendship, but by reputation at least the mayor was no more so. They might be better matched than he supposed.  
\---  
Javert lost no time in putting his plan into action. Instead of sending them with a factory worker or one of the professional loiterers as he usually did, he took his reports to the mayor in person. This time he wasn't kept waiting but was admitted at once, and Madeleine seemed marginally more genial toward him. It didn't matter to his mission, but was significant enough a change that Javert noticed. Had the inspector given himself away, did he suspect? That didn't matter either. He didn't expect anything fruitful to come of this, only assurance for himself.

Laying the sheaf of papers on the mayor's desk before him, Javert lingered there a few moments longer than necessary, finally withdrawing when Madeleine showed no signs of movement. He was evidently waiting for this, because as soon as Javert's hand was gone, he reached for them.

"Well?"

The mayor, already engrossed in the reports, glanced up. "What is it?"

"Are they satisfactory?"

Here he seemed surprised. "They come from you, I am sure they are," he answered. For a moment Javert thought he detected a note of something in the man's voice, something like reassurance. Was this left over from the day before? Did he think Javert now doubted his own abilities? If so, he was off the mark. The inspector had slipped, had deserved to fall—but he did still know how to walk.

He could think of no excuse to stay in the mayor's presence, however. He was only an inspector, there was no reason Madeleine should discuss the affairs of the town with him. That was why it was his turn to be surprised when the mayor addressed him, though without looking up from the report. "It says here we are to receive a commissaire? I thought that was reserved for towns larger than ours."

"It is on account of your great success. The préfet thinks there is greater need to protect this town from bandits."

"Bandits, here? Well, whatever they think is right, but I do not agree." He paused, reading further, and still without glancing up said, "Do you know the man they're sending?"

"I do not."

Madeleine sighed, then set the report back on his desk. "We shall see, then." He seemed to be speaking to himself more than to Javert, but the inspector too was curious about this new development. "As mayor I will need to meet with him. Perhaps you'd like to be present?"

"Me?" Javert nearly recoiled at the suggestion. "You forget I am only an inspector. He will wonder why I am there, and rightly so."

For the first time since he had taken up the report, Madeleine looked directly at Javert, his gaze bold but guarded. "Nevertheless, I would value your opinion, inspector."

Ah, thought Javert, he is trying to get in my good graces! Still, it was an excuse to spend more time in his presence, so though he met the suggestion with suspicion rather than accepting it as a compliment, he finally agreed with a curt nod. "Summon me, I will be there. You know where to find me." The mayor dismissed him, and he withdrew, assuming that would be the end of it. He'd only offered as a courtesy, surely. But several days later, he received a note summoning him to the office of monsieur le maire. It said simply, 'M. Favreau is arrived.'

In the intervening days Javert had done all he could to find out about this man who was coming to possibly upend the town. Reports were scarce, especially at such short notice, but it seemed he had been in the south, some of their time served overlapped. Javert did not recall him, but that meant little. Guards came and went like flies in those floating prisons. Even when face to face with M. Favreau, Javert did not recognize him, and he was sure he would have known that florid, sweaty countenance anywhere.

He was just dabbing his face when Javert entered. His only greeting was a perfunctory nod. This didn't bother Javert who thought it was only right he should be treated thus; but when the man turned that same manner on the mayor, then he had cause to object. It was his right to scowl at the mayor, to be curt with him, after all he'd learned about the man. This Favreau, this commissaire—he thought almost bitterly of it—he knew nothing of Madeleine, yet still treated him as though he were his peon instead of the other way around. Therefore, to the surprise even of himself, Javert was seized with a profound dislike of the commissaire. But as the grain of sand would never deign to criticize a statue no matter how artlessly carved, the inspector stood to one side and simply observed all that took place.

The two men had been speaking when he came in, and after a brief acknowledgment, they continued. "You are welcome here, monsieur. Inspector Javert—that is he, there in the corner—and his fellow officers will be glad of the assistance, I am sure."

"What kind of resources can you give me?"

Madeleine's face darkened slightly and he glanced away. "Not as much as you are used to. As you've no doubt been informed, we are a small town and have never before had a commissaire."

"But I've heard things about you, how you're rich as Croesus. You can spare a few louis for the safety of the town."

Javert noted how Favreau was not even bothering to address him as 'monsieur,' let alone his full title.

"Croesus was defeated and possibly burned at the stake. I hope I do not resemble him," Madeleine said mildly before continuing, "I will consider all your requests fairly, monsieur, but to be frank I see no need for a commissaire."

"No need!" Favreau's face reddened further, if it were possible. "No need! May I remind you that every day there are bandits that go about unchecked in the country, and that a band of them might well decide to come here if its mayor is foolish enough to leave it unguarded!"

This was a double blow to Javert, for though he agreed with the commissaire in principle, in fact he was offended. Madeleine was many things, but foolish was not among them, not in practical matters at least. He clearly had a head for business even if once that business concluded he was less judicious about how he spent his profits. And it was absurd to say he didn't care about the safety of the town. The irritation was beginning to be visible in the inspector's expression, a fact that by itself showed the profundity of it.

"I am sorry you think the town's defenses are so inadequate, but monsieur, we are not at war here."

"That's where you're wrong, my man. It's a war whether you're fighting it or not. You better decide what side you're on. Good day." He made no acknowledgment at all of the mayor's position, just turned and stalked out with a stiff awkward gait.

After a few seconds' silence Javert said, "Well!" and there was a rough, simple eloquence in that single word. It expressed his astonishment, that a commissaire had dared speak to a mayor, even this mayor, in such a way; but also at the same time his admiration for the man's attitude.

From his desk, Madeleine looked to the inspector. "Well, what do you think?"

What a question, 'what do you think?' But Javert did have an opinion here, and when asked for it, he gave it. "I think that one bears watching," he answered carefully. As he spoke he moved closer to the desk until he stood next to Madeleine, towering above the seated man. The mayor didn't look up.

Javert hadn't forgotten his resolve. He put his hand on Madeleine's shoulder and this at last got him to glance up. "Don't let him bully you. He is an agent of the government as you are, but you were specially appointed by the king." There was a moment in which they stared at each other, predator and unwitting prey, then the spell was broken. Madeleine covered Javert's hand with his own. A brief gesture, but it produced the exact same reaction as before.

"Thank you for your concern, inspector, but I have dealt with such men before. I will not be pressed into doing something I do not wish to do."

As he left the mayor's office, Javert was more troubled, not less. How much, he wondered, had been a revolt against the touch itself, and how much at the fact that he had been the instigator?  
\---  
For the next several days, Javert contented himself with visiting Madeleine's office every morning to deliver his reports. each day making an effort to be personable, which in his case mostly constituted a shallower frown. But as subtle as the change was, the mayor was perceptive enough to notice it, or so it seemed, for on the third day after some hesitation he detained the inspector a little longer to ask his opinion on this or that matter to do with the town. Javert was reluctant to offer any, but when pressed he relented. And the very next day he was rewarded for his patience with an invitation to dinner at the mayor's house. With Commissaire Favreau, true, but an invitation, something he would never have expected before it happened.

He was quick to accept, thinking that he might get some opportunity to search for proof, if indeed Madeleine kept it so near danger. He was cunning, so perhaps he had done away with it entirely or hidden it elsewhere, but without looking, they would never be found. He wasn't sure what the proper dress should be, but only spent half a second on considering it before he realized he only had the two sets of identical clothes anyway, neither of which were in particularly good condition, though well cared for. So he showed up at Madeleine's door in his threadbare coat and trousers, and was admitted without hesitation by the portress.

No doubt she'd been warned of his arrival, but even so Javert was struck by her alacrity in accepting such a ragged person into the mayor's home. He narrowed his eyes slightly at her as he passed by her into the entryway. She should take care who she let in. The inspector was a special case, being expected and also well known throughout the town. Still, he had a suspicion she would have been so profligate with nearly anyone. And then a second thought occurred to him. Even that might be on her master's orders. Yes, that would be like Madeleine.

The man himself soon appeared on the scene and beckoned him inside, instructing the portress to take his coat and hat. He relinquished them only reluctantly, as though they would be snatched away to some hidden recess of the house never to be seen again. But even if that had been the intention, the mayor knew it would be no use, for this was no ordinary denizen of Montreuil, this was Javert, and he had no illusions that Madeleine didn't think he still harbored suspicions. Instead they were hung in the hallway with some of the mayor's coarser garments.

"Dinner is ready, and M. Favreau arrived just a few minutes before this. Follow me please, inspector." He led the way to a small dining room where a modest repast had been laid out. Favreau sat with both hands at the table's edge as though if he let go, he might fall into some chaotic abyss out of sheer weakness of hunger. He glanced up at Javert's entry and gave him a fishlike stare—somewhat crosseyed and unblinking.

"What's he doing here? I thought I made it clear to you I don't fraternize off-duty, Madeleine."

The mayor gave him a mildly reproving look before retreating back to complete serenity. "He is my guest, monsieur, so I ask only that you tolerate each other while you are under my roof." He looked as though he might be regretting his decision, and Javert didn't blame him. A more perfectly matched triangle of hatred could not be found even if sought for. Javert distrusted the mayor, who disliked Favreau, who looked down on both of them.

The one thing Javert wasn't sure was where the mayor's feelings regarding him fell. Madeleine's expression was always hard to read, as was his tone. Interpreting them was more work than Javert had been willing to put into it. The only thing that might be of use to him was if he had slipped up and shown some fear or sign of nerves, but no, he was always the placid surface of a lake, almost unnaturally smooth.

Dinner was an uncomfortable affair, plagued with long stretches of silence, awkward prompts by Madeleine, which inevitably were twisted into a demand for more funding from Favreau, and Javert perched between the two of them, trying to pinpoint where his loyalties lay and finding it strangely difficult.

Then at last his mind was made up for him. Favreau went too far, crossed a line and in doing so revealed its location to Javert so that he could stand on the other side of it. The commissaire was in the middle of a bite of chicken, a flap of fried skin dangling from one corner of his mouth, even as he spoke. "You're doing a terrible job here, Madeleine. I honestly don't know why the king was so eager to appoint you. Clearly he's got cotton for brains."

That settled it. Javert had his own set of feelings towards Madeleine and even thought he was duping everyone around him, but that didn't make them—including the king—stupid, it just made them less cunning, less full of guile. Besides, the inspector still resented the man's attitude towards the mayor. Whatever else he was, he was Favreau's superior, and the commissaire ought to have behaved accordingly. "You are lucky the king is not here to hear you speak of him like that," Javert growled with as much contempt in his voice as he could muster. Favreau barely glanced at him.

"He's just a man like any other. If he deserves criticism, I'll damned well dish it out. What, I suppose you're on a first-name basis?"

"No, but I know my place, unlike you."

"My place? And what's that?"

Javert met his gaze, undaunted. "Below the mayor. He could get you dismissed, that makes him your superior. You should remember that."

"What for, he doesn't exactly act like it."

That Javert had to concede was true. "Respect the office then, if you can't respect the man."

"Hmm. And is that what you do then? I've seen the way you look at him. You don't trust him an inch more than I do."

He couldn't help glancing at Madeleine at that, but the man didn't appear affected. Unsurprised? Probably. Untroubled? Possibly. After eyeing him for several seconds, he turned back to Favreau, brows furrowed. "It is my right to suspect him, and believe me, there is plenty of cause; but it is different to withhold the minimum of courtesy when he is the mayor and you the commissaire. He's not as terrible as you think." He didn't know why he'd added that, especially to the end of what had come before, but out of the corner of his eye he saw that it had equally shocked Madeleine. Well, as long as he didn't get the idea Javert would start making a habit of it.

Favreau fixed him with an uncharacteristically keen look. "You're telling me how to go about my job? You, monsieur l'inspecteur?" he demanded, lacing the title with a strong dose of bile, which Javert took no notice of.

"Only when you give signs of not knowing it," he replied coolly. The other two men at the table were both astonished at this, Favreau on principle, Madeleine because he knew it must have taken a great deal to elicit such insubordination.

"That seems like dangerous talk to your superior," Favreau said, and he sounded halfway dangerous as he said it.

"And what of you? You take advantage of monsieur le maire's kindness at every turn. Another man would have dismissed you long ago if he were talking as you have."

"He keeps me on because I'm effective."

"You detestable little peacock, I don't know why he keeps you on, but it's certainly not on account of your competence! Dismiss me if you like, but I've lost all patience with you."

They both stared at him; he stared back at Favreau defiantly as though challenging him to act. The commissaire just shrugged, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and stood up from the table. "Well, I think it's best I leave you two to your... fraternity. Good evening." And without another word, he turned and walked out of the small dining room, leaving behind him an astonished silence. It lasted at least a minute before Javert finally spoke.

"Why am I not dismissed?"

Madeleine looked thoughtful. "Perhaps he fears retribution."

"What, from you?"

"It's possible that's what he thinks."

"He must be mad."

"He doesn't know me." Madeleine shrugged, then looked directly at the inspector. "Thank you for defending me."

"That wasn't for you."

"I know, but thank you all the same."

Javert just grunted acknowledgment, staring down at his empty plate. "Why did you invite me here?"

"I imagine you don't often get to eat good meals. And... I enjoy your company."

This caused the inspector to look up sharply. Here at last was proof, the man was trying to get on his good side. Well, let him think he's succeeded, see where it leads, he thought. "Not many do."

"It is their loss." He paused and gestured to the still-full glass in front of Javert. "You haven't drunk your wine. Did you not like it?"

"I don't drink."

"Not even wine?"

"Not even wine," he confirmed, but he could see the mayor was about to argue with him about it, so he reached for the glass and took a small sip. "Not bad."

Madeleine smiled and rose with Javert. "Must you go?"

"Dinner is finished," he ventured, not sure why he would stay past that.

"We could talk."

"About what?" he demanded with a scoffing laugh.

Madeleine appeared to hesitate, then reaching some kind of decision, leaned forward, said, "Or there are other things besides talking," and kissed him.

It took Javert completely by surprise. He didn't even have the presence of mind to draw back. But if the action surprised him at first, as he thought about it, it made sense from everything else he knew, and thought he knew, about the man. He smiled in satisfaction, which Madeleine chose to misinterpret as assent. Well, that was all right. Javert wanted to see how far the old convict would go in attempting to bribe him.

Meanwhile the mayor was looking at him with an expression he couldn't quite read. It seemed almost like pity, but how did that fit? "I thought so," he said, "the way you've been acting... I am glad I was right. Come, the bed will be more comfortable."

As if in a dream, Javert allowed himself to be led by the hand, though inwardly he was thrown into a mixture of jubilation and consternation. This would give him the perfect opportunity to search the man's chamber... why was he making it so easy? Surely he didn't think this would put Javert off his guard? Well, it wouldn't. This was working out far better than he could have dreamed, and if something a little distasteful was required, so be it.

Like the rest of his house, Madeleine's bedroom was simple to the point of penury. A chair, a table, a dresser, and a bed were all that were there, and all of them were rough-hewn and cheap. Why did he live this way when he had a fortune at his fingertips? At least it would make the search easier. Because they stood out, Javert noticed the nicest things in the room, a pair of silver candlesticks perched on the mantle. Madeleine saw him examining these and drew him towards the bed instead. "We both have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow," he said.

Somehow Javert managed to conceal the worst of his skepticism, but as he allowed himself to be drawn towards the bed he continued to glance at the two pieces of silver out of the corner of his eye. He knew instantly what they must be, trophies from that first theft—not the one which would send him back to the galleys, since the bishop hadn't wanted to press the issue and now the old turtle was dead, but they were more ostentatious and visible than the other memento, just a little coin stolen from a Savoyard. Without the bishop's testimony they were worthless, except that they confirmed the fact yet again in the inspector's mind.

Javert was a large man himself, but as the mayor, who he was now convinced was in fact Jean Valjean, propped himself above him with one arm to each side, he was reminded uncomfortably of just how strong the man was. What had he gotten himself into anyway? This was ridiculous, there ought to be limits—and he was dangerous... Christ, Javert thought, teeth clenched; I'm an idiot, and half-dead already, and I have no one to blame but me.

And yet the face looming over him didn't look dangerous, not yet. What if he were to change his mind, what then? Did he want to risk it? But before he could decide one way or the other, Jean Valjean's perceptive gaze—it had always seen everything—caught something of his reluctance and he responded to it. "Are you sure about this? If not, just say so."

Well, there was the answer to that. But then he'd probably be leaping at a chance to get out of this, since he was only doing it to appease the ferocious wolf of the law. Perversely that made Javert more determined to go through with it, so he just glared up at the convict, then reached out and seized the back of his head, pulling him into a rough, strictly instinctual kiss. There was none of the tenderness that might normally be associated with the gesture, just lips and teeth, animalistic.

He received the exact same shock as before, but this time he could ignore it, because he knew exactly where it came from and what he was going to do about it. After all this was over he would gather his evidence, and then he would send word to Arras, and then... and then he would have him exactly where he belonged, at last after eight years of stolen freedom. He'd fight like a tiger, yes, but Javert would be ready for him.

First, however, he had to endure this humiliating ordeal. Humiliating, because what in hell did a person even do? Javert was vaguely aware of the basic mechanics where it concerned men and women, God knew he had to deal with enough of it with the whores of the town. But his only experience of whatever this was came from... well! No doubt the same place that had incubated these twisted desires in the convict, except that Javert had always turned a blind eye to what the prisoners got up to in their spare time. Now he almost wished he'd paid attention. Almost.

Anyway, surprisingly Jean Valjean didn't seem interested in the sort of roughness that would have passed for intimacy in the galleys. He didn't respond in kind to Javert's kiss, replying instead with a gentleness so unexpected that it took the inspector aback. He pulled away to see the other man's face and found that he was staring down with the same look he'd worn earlier. Javert would have sworn it was a cousin to pity.

"It's all right," he said, shifting an unruly lock of hair away from his forehead so tenderly that Javert had to struggle not to reject it outright. And when the convict leaned down for another kiss, he finally resigned himself entirely to the situation and let it happen.  
\---  
Later, when it was finished, Javert had to admit it hadn't been as unpleasant as he'd expected, and now he had his reward ahead of him. That would have been good, except that somehow, inexplicably, he'd fallen asleep. What a moronic idea, in the bed of a dangerous convict! If he was killed in his sleep, he would have deserved it. But no, he woke with a start before dawn, grey hints of light seeping in through a miniscule crack in the curtains. During the night his body had chosen to interpret his actions as acceptance, because instead of instinctually keeping away, it had decided to sprawl all over the small bed. Well, at least it had made certain Jean Valjean stayed put.

It was as he became aware that his arm was flung over the broad shoulders of the convict that a thought sparked his interest. He let his fingers slip delicately beneath the loosened shirt, tracing a path along his chest. Javert knew exactly what he was looking for and it wasn't long until he found it. The curves and lines of numbers seared onto the man's skin years ago. They had aged well, and would still be legible if he hadn't known what the were already.

He'd set them to memory years earlier in Toulon and was incapable of forgetting them. Like a ringing bell he heard it now and again in odd moments and served as a reminder of a particular lawbreaker. They were all filed away there, close to hand should he need to recall them. And so here was the final proof he needed. The skin couldn't lie. THis was indeed the old convict, prisoner number 24601.

He knew it too. He had been awoken and, feeling Javert's fingers, had gone completely still. Javert could smell his fear, though he couldn't see his face.

"Jean Valjean," he accused.

For the longest time the man stayed silent, and then he spoke, quiet but clear. His voice was serene, not even resigned, just completely calm. Imperturbable.

"What will you do?"

That was a question that they both knew the answer to before it was asked. "It's to the jail with you until I send word to Arras. How are you so calm?"

"I knew this moment would come, someday. I just always hoped it would be later rather than sooner."

"You won't try to escape." A statement, not a question.

"No. The chase is over. There is just one thing."

Javert let his silence be an assent.

"You remember the woman Fantine. I would like to make sure her daughter is brought here to her."

A grimace twisted Javert's features, and he didn't answer for quite some time, as though he were wrestling with himself. "Would you give me your word?"

"What?" Finally Jean Valjean turned over, his look perplexed.

"Your word, would you give it? If I were to fetch the child, would I return to a penned convict or an empty cell?" The words seemed almost as if they were dragged from him. The man stared back at Javert, completely astonished, before regaining enough equilibrium to respond.

"Of course. I would still be here if you were to do that, and then you can escort me back to the galleys if that's what you want."

That was what he wanted, Javert reminded himself. Whatever had happened the night before, that was all a ruse, a failed ruse no less, and wouldn't keep Valjean from the double chain.

"I must be mad," he muttered to himself, "to trust an old convict! Yes, if they have me committed they'll be well within their rights. If you break your promise, I will find you."

"I have no doubt of that," the man replied smoothly. "I give you my word, I will remain wherever you put me, But you should know. I was going to give myself up. At Champmathieu's trial."

Javert couldn't bring himself to believe that. Such clear sincerity in that tone, and yet, it came from the mouth of a convict, the very dregs of society. He was saying it to bolster his image even now, so it couldn't be anything but lies. "That makes no difference."

"To me it does. I couldn't have lived with myself knowing another man was suffering in my place... because of me. Believe me, I would have done it."

Such a strained tone. Mother of God, Javert almost did believe him. Through gritted teeth he said, "It's a moot point, Valjean. You're going, and in handcuffs." He was surprised the man wasn't going to try and use his position as mayor to weasel out of this. Certainly he could have gotten away with it; the only proof was the scarred flesh, and the town wouldn't believe that without seeing it for themselves, a difficult thing to arrange. As it stood right now, no one wanted to hear a bad word about Mayor Madeleine—Javert should know, since he'd been against the rogue all along, and been laughed at for his probity.

But instead he just lay there quietly, waiting to see what the inspector's next orders might be. The tame pup, or the wolf cub who bides his time? The latter, of course. Javert swung himself upright so that he was perched at the edge of the bed and began to reassemble his clothes. His state of nakedness didn't feel awkward. He'd half-expected it to, but it just felt neutral. Bland, even. That was what came of something done for the sake of duty; not one scrap of it could be embarrassing.

A thought came to him, one that was ridiculous enough that he shoved it away. But as he arrayed himself for the rest of the day, it kept recurring. Jean Valjean was a cunning man, and if he wanted to escape, he would have no difficulty doing so. It was in fact one of his best skills. So if Javert trusted him in the cell, what was the very great distance between that and trusting him in his factory? Besides, the authorities at Arras would want to see the proof for themselves, and if somehow they got the idea he had been wrong, again, this time he would be dismissed. He would prefer to avoid that when it was based on falsities.

The decision made, he turned crisply back towards the bed, where the convict still lay, watching him with that unreadable expression. But faced with the man who should be his prisoner, Javert found he couldn't speak. Instead he nodded, spat out the trio of words "monsieur le maire" with snarling irony, and stalked out of the room. He was fortunate enough not to encounter anyone else on the way out, for which Javert was glad. The ploy, in which he'd taken advantage of whatever strange assumptions had come into Jean Valjean's head, had been successful beyond what he could have hoped; but until the man was unmasked, this situation would have appeared as something else entirely.

The morning air, chilly for March, felt refreshing after the stifling atmosphere of Jean Valjean's house. Javert spent the rest of the day in a strange mood. He sent word to Arras and should have been pleased at this final vindication, but there was also the matter of what he had not done. He had not arrested the convict, he still roamed free and at any moment could bolt. And then there was the matter of this child. He'd promised to fetch her all the way from Montfermeil, halfway across the country. It would take him four or five days at best, there and back. In that time anything could happen, Jean Valjean might do anything—not just escape but possibly something even more heinous.

So Javert performed all his usual duties with no apparent change, and for once he did not chafe at their dull nature. He welcomed it.  
\---  
The child had very large eyes. Almost unnaturally so. Javert had occasion to notice this because she did nothing but stare at him for the entire stretch between Montfermeil and Montreuil. She hardly seemed to need to blink, even. He took this in his usual scowling stride, but he was in fact bothered by it. He didn't much care for being under such close surveillance, especially for no reason. What was she staring at him for? If she was that interested, he'd have expected to field a question or two, but she didn't say a word. Maybe she was an idiot. There was a certain blankness to those eyes. But from the brief scenes he'd witnessed at the inn, it could just as easily come from mistreatment.

Maybe that was why he was so bothered. He knew that look because it had once been his.

Anyway, she was going to see her mother. Even he had to admit that some mother would be better than none, and the Thénardier woman wasn't any mother at all, not to this child. That reunion might animate her. As it was, she seemed more like a ghost than a living being. Her impact on the world was about the same. Javert might as well have been sitting across from empty space for all the notice she attracted. It was disconcerting, and he was relieved when the carriage finally rolled into Montreuil, coming to a stop in front of the hospital.

"Come along," he said roughly to the child as he stepped out, because she hadn't moved. Even when he said this, she continued to stare at him with a perfectly neutral expression, so he added, "Don't you want to see your mother?"

After a few excruciating seconds, she finally nodded, and with the somber air of a nun at a funeral she climbed out of the carriage and still without a word followed Javert up the stairs to the infirmary. A few quick words to the sister guarding the entrance, and they were let in. The inspector, simultaneously aware that his presence would not be welcome and not particularly wanting to remain anyway, stayed at the door and shooed the child towards the sick woman's bed. "You might as well take it from here," he muttered to the sister on duty, then turned on his heels and went out.

His feet had a mind of their own, it seemed. He had planned on going home, but instead he found himself outside the mayor's house. Well, he had to see for himself, didn't he? Javert expected to find an empty shell of a building, but when he knocked, the portress answered, and when he asked for Madeleine, he was admitted. "He is at home?" he asked, unable to keep a slight note of skepticism from his voice.

"Why, naturally," the old woman answered. "He always is, of the evenings. You're in luck, inspector, he'll have finished his supper by now." She led him first to the dining room and when that was empty, to his sleeping chamber. Turning in so early? Javert thought, but then remembered the table and chair. That would be more comfortable for a single man than sitting all alone at that too-large dining table.

At the portress's knock came a voice, rough but amiable. "What is it?"

"Inspector Javert is here to see you, monsieur."

A silence, then: "Send him in."

At this prompting, Javert went inside, shutting the door behind him. There sat Jean Valjean, large as life in his chair, which he'd pulled up next to the fireplace. A book was still clutched in his hand, instantly forgotten at the sight of the inspector. He didn't smile, but he also didn't seem troubled. "Good evening, Javert."

"Monsieur l'inspecteur," he insisted, but without giving him a chance to correct his mistake he continued, "I brought back the child. She is with her mother now."

At last, this elicited a reaction—complete astonishment. The sight of it rankled Javert, because he was so infallibly a man of his word. But when the convict finally said, "Thank you," he acknowledged it with a nod. "And are they happy?"

"Probably. I didn't stay around to watch. That's not my concern. Let the sisters deal with it." Given the way he felt about Fantine, about all the wrong choices she'd made, it was for the best he'd left when he did.

This occurred to Jean Valjean too, who declined to argue further. Instead he just said again, "Thank you. I would have gone myself, but I doubt you would have trusted me that far."

"That far? What the devil do you mean? You could as easily escape if I remained behind here and you went to Paris. Have I just wasted four days?"

"I don't know, but either way I am grateful. You didn't have to do that." A brief pause, then he added, "Why did you?"

"Because I'm mad, clearly," Javert grumbled.

"Enough to stay and sit a while with me?"

The inspector's eyebrows came together. "You know by now I only went along with that to find proof of who you are?"

"Yes... and no. I think you are still a very lonely man."

"And if I am, what then? It would be hard to find a more mismatched pair, one man of the police and the other of the galleys."

Jean Valjean shrugged. Throughout this he hadn't once looked away. "It's up to you."

Of course it was. He was in the right here. But the chair opposite the convict looked inviting. Damn this insanity! Javert wanted to say no, wanted to walk out. Come to it, he _wanted_ to arrest this man. But Jean Valjean had kept his word, and Javert must keep his. It would have to wait until Champmathieu’s trial. There was nothing for him here then, so why hadn’t he gone? He continued to stare at the seated man, who stared right back, pretending to be meek. Why? There was no point to it anymore…

Then before he could think properly about what he was doing, he strode across the small stretch of space still separating them and kissed that same Jean Valjean whom he still wanted to send back to the galleys. It was beyond perplexing, and yet the moment the deed was done, he knew it was something he had been thinking about these past four days. Only the good Lord knew why. He drew back with a grimace, but even so, still didn’t leave, just sat down opposite the convict and glared at him.

“This won’t save you,” he growled. “You’re still going to Arras when the time comes.”

Jean Valjean nodded. “I know. But why deny happiness just because it may be fleeting?”

“Happiness? This is the opposite of happiness.” But then, would Javert have known it, if it had shown itself to him? “I should be arresting you. I am not, so I am your accomplice. And as if that weren’t enough…” He waved a hand towards the fire vaguely, this nebulousness a sign of his supreme discomfort with all this.

“Just accept it for what it is,” Jean Valjean said. “Nothing is anything but how God ordains it, so it cannot be wrong. I am still bound for Arras in a week, and then on to Toulon—or perhaps they’ll assign me a change in scenery and send me to Brest. But in the meantime, there is life to be lived, and it doesn’t have to be miserable.”

Javert had never encountered anyone so calm in the face of—well, of _hell_ than this man. It didn’t fit with the image of him that he had, the image of a dangerous convict, desperate, willing to do whatever it took to escape the double chain. It left the inspector confused and in no small part angry. Yet he clearly did want this… what would it hurt, so long as the prisoner ended in Arras? The thought was foreign and painful to him, but it refused to leave him alone.

They both fell silent, each gazing at each other; Javert with consternation, Jean Valjean with serene, open beneficence. Javert resented that look—what, did he see this as some kind of charity? He didn't know which was worse, that or the fact he was accepting it... or even that it existed. Kindness from a convict! Impossible! But he struggled to see what else it could be. They had already established that by the end of the week, Jean Valjean would be on his way back to the galleys. Nothing he could do or say between now and then could change that. So why else would he bother with this? The question kept battering away at Javert's defenses and he was ignoring it for now, but soon enough it would be deafening.

"Why are you doing this?" Staccato words hurled in a fit of pique; but the man he was most angry with was himself.

"I like you." A long pause, in which Jean Valjean finally looked away to the fire. "No, as strange as it seems, I love you." He ignored Javert's sharp hiss—of protest? disbelief—and continued, "I thought it was no more than the love of one Christian for another, but I know better now. Despite yourself you trusted me. Despite yourself you fetched Fantine's child, no easy thing, especially for you since you have nothing but contempt to spare for her. So, I know you are a man in search of the right path. No, let me finish. You want to be on the side of the angels, but you don't see. The law is the law, it is neither right nor wrong. It simply is. Sometimes it may be just, others it is unjust. With all the certainty trapping Champmathieu, if I had not been discovered, an innocent man would have gone to the galleys."

"He's hardly innocent," Javert observed. "You're forgetting he was unmasked only because he was arrested and in prison."

"All right then, innocent of the crimes of which he was accused. He didn't steal from the bishop of Digne—I did. He didn't pinch the little Savoyard's coin—I did. He had no parole to break. I will be going back to the galleys in the double chain most likely. That would have been Champmathieu, when he had not earned it at all."

It should have been easy for Javert to listen to this. Or rather, to let it pass from one ear to the other without stopping to be considered by the conscious mind. But like the roll of distant thunder, he could hear it. Most of it still didn't make sense and he had no desire to pursue untangling it, but enough did that it stirred the normally placid surface of his being. Should he get up and leave? He knew the answer to that. He also knew he would not, and it tore at him like wild dogs.

Later, when he lay in the bed beside Jean Valjean, their shoulders touching, it drove him to rise in the depths of the night. He couldn't possibly sleep. He couldn't even hear himself think. But dressed and stalking the streets of Montreuil, finally gone quiet at this late hour, it was no better. His thoughts still clamored, a din he was unaccustomed to. How to silence them?

He found himself at the city's ramparts, staring out across the night-blackened landscape. There was no moon, no stars. Nothing was clearly visible. That was fitting, it matched his state of mind perfectly. He no longer knew where he stood.

And where a man could not stand, he fell.  
\---  
Jean Valjean awoke to an empty bed, which he had expected. He was, however, surprised to find a note left on the table. Its brevity was entirely characteristic of Javert; its mysteriousness was not. It read simply: 'do what you must.'

He suspected nothing of the reason for Javert's absence, thinking only that he hadn't wanted to remain. He had never been more than a grudging visitor, after all. But the news had already spread like a brushfire by the time he reached the factory. He stayed only long enough to hear the barest details before rushing to the west edge of the citadel.

For now, the body had been left where it landed. It lay with limbs in the most impossible of positions, a pile of disjointed pieces that still somehow constituted a whole. The only blood had come from the split skull, the excess draining away beneath the grass that had not been enough cushion. A portion had been halted in its tracks by thick black hair; it had dried there, leaving behind a stiff inseparable mass, the blood dyeing it a dull brown.

Jean Valjean stared at this scene, uncomprehending. Just the night before, this man had been with him, alive, hale if slightly troubled in mind. This couldn't be... or if it was, then he was at fault. There must have been something he didn't see, which if he'd noticed, he could have prevented this. He knelt down beside the body; no one stopped him. Jean Valjean extended a hand, laid it tentatively on the now-cold shoulder that had so often been hunched against him. He couldn't understand why this had happened. And when he wept, it was for the loss of what had come before, and what might have been—if only for a week.

That week was not at all as he'd pictured it. Instead of evenings spent with someone he cared for, it was taken up with municipal duties he almost didn't have the heart to perform. Arrangements for the investigation of the death (conclusion: suicide), and for the placement of the body. Even the wealth and influence of Mayor Madeleine counted for nothing against the mortal sin of suicide, and Javert was buried in unconsecrated ground. The one thing he could ensure, a poor consolation, was that it was not also an unmarked grave. He arranged for a small, flat stone to be placed over the spot, so unobtrusive as not to offend anyone. It read:

_Inspector Javert, of the police  
Man of honor and of justice  
At the end he saw, but not far enough._

A week later, Jean Valjean had revealed himself, Champmathieu was Champmathieu once more, Fantine was finally at peace, and an old man and a child were seen along the road from Montreuil to Paris.

But the stone remained behind, silent testimony until its simple words were at last effaced by time and weather, and it became overgrown with grass and weeds.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for any anachronisms or other errors. This is mostly Brick ‘verse, but there are probably influences from the musical also. I’m not sure about the pacing at the end, but I didn’t want to basically rehash ‘Javert derailed.’


End file.
